I am pretty sure Colt thought I was crying tonight.
The thing is, I wasn't. Not this time, at least.
See, Colt plays Al, my husband in A Chorus Line. And there is a part of the show when three ladies are singing a ballad, At the Ballet. Instead of doing something crazy like give the rest of the cast a break and allow us to go offstage during this trio, we all must stand frozen as statues upstage, in the dark.
Well, that's the goal, anyway.
I don't always stand as still as I should, being a bit of a fidgeter by nature as well as constantly searching for that illusive standing position in which my feet don't hurt in those heels. That has become my own personal holy grail, and I will probably die still searching for it. Either that, or join a tribe of pygmies and go barefoot. Actually at 5'8" the pygmies would not know what to do with me, so that's probably not the way to go.
Anyway, back to At the Ballet.
So I am standing there in the dark, trying not to move too much, but still burrowing my fingers into my fishnet tights because really, the audience just can't see that and honestly, I am the soul of discretion when it comes to the art of sticking one's fingers into one's tights. Mid burrow, I suddenly get something caught in my throat. Maybe it's phlegm. Probably it is. I start sniffing profusely, and maybe my eye itches on top of that because I vaguely remember swiping at it.
He reaches over, grabs my hand, and whispers, You're gonna be okay. I smile and nod, hoping that he gets it even in the dark, but the point is I don't stop him. I don't tell him that I am not crying because it's a cardinal rule that you don't talk during At the Ballet and to be perfectly frank, I enjoy the comfort.
Because, every once in a while, who doesn't need their hand held and to be told that they are going to be okay? Crying or not, it's a really nice thing. And I am not about to turn it down.